


sour yellow sounds inside my head

by totally_loca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disordered Eating, Friendship, Gen, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totally_loca/pseuds/totally_loca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=6270432#t6270432">kink meme</a> prompt:<br/>Grantaire tries to become someone worthy of Enjolras, but in doing so he drives himself ragged, and the Les amis don't realize until they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sour yellow sounds inside my head

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** This story contains self-loathing thoughts and mention of prior alcohol dependence and possible depression.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Pornography by The Cure.

Grantaire watched Enjolras stalk towards him at the end of the meeting, the blonde’s face a neutral mask. He fought to keep his own in an easy grin, his fingers tapping out an off-beat rhythm on the side of the glass he’d spent the last half hour wishing held something stronger than only coke. He really wished it held even a drop of rum right now.  
Enjolras paused in front of him and Grantaire tipped his chair back so he was tilted to look up at him. 

“Got something to say?” he said when Enjolras said nothing after a long moment.  
“What,” Enjolras paused to clear his throat. “What you said today was helpful, thank you.”  
The surprise showed on Grantaire’s face for a brief second before his smile became genuine and sharpened. “Nothing I haven’t said before, Apollo.” He dismissed, waving one hand airily and nearly smacking Courfeyrac in the face as he dropped into the seat next to him.  
Enjolras shifted, clearly uncomfortable.  
“But usually slurred and mocking.” Courfeyrac chimed in, aiming an easy grin up at Enjolras and slinging his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, forcing him to drop his chair back onto all four legs.  
Grantaire shook his head, Courfeyrac’s actions drawing a small laugh from him, “yeah, yeah.”  
“How many weeks sober is it?” Courfeyrac teased gently, but when he looked at Enjolras his face was serious in contrast to his tone. 

Grantaire kept his gaze focused on the table top where he’d taken to drawing idle patterns in the condensation left by his glass to avoid Enjolras’ shocked gaze. He blushed as Courfeyrac nudged him, pushing for an answer.  
“Eight weeks, three days and thirteen hours.” He murmured quietly. He chanced a glance up at Enjolras and felt a little of his self-confidence return when the other man held his gaze, a new respect in his eyes. That little sliver of respect from Enjolras made the struggle to stay sober all the more worthwhile. After all, becoming a man worthy of Enjolras had been the motivation for quitting. He could hear Joly’s voice berating him in his head, telling him he had to do it for himself for it to stick. The thought that chased that told him he wasn’t worth doing it for himself. Courfeyrac squeezed his shoulder, proud of his friend, drawing him out of his head, and the evening carried on. 

 

Combeferre placed his cello carefully back into its case and stretched, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was nearing 3 in the morning and he was hoping that when he got home to his bed he’d be able to sleep; cello practice being his equivalent of warm milk. He packed his things quickly and carefully and headed out into the hallway, pausing only to switch off the light and heating. He shivered in the cold corridor, mentally bracing himself for the cold outside, when a light streaming out of one of the end practice rooms caught his eye. It was unusual for anyone else to be in the building that late at night and he was intrigued. He peered through the glass in the door and paused when he registered Grantaire, a flute held up to his lips, playing with his eyes closed. The rooms were soundproof and so with his curiosity piqued to a maximum he eased into the room to hear what he was playing.

The noise of the door caught Grantaire’s attention and he stopped playing abruptly, eyes flying open and locking on Combeferre. Combeferre winced apologetically. “Sorry,” he said, his voice low in deference to the now silent room, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”  
Grantaire shrugged, fingering the keys nervously and avoiding the other boy’s gaze.  
“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” Combeferre offered, assessing the bags under his eyes and his jittery movements, “couldn’t sleep?”  
“Essay to finish.” Grantaire deflected, his voice rough and he coughed once, gesturing at the laptop and papers scattered in the corner of the room. 

Combeferre took in the detritus of the essay writing session, hating himself for looking for any evidence of alcohol and smiling to himself when he found none, before turning his shrewd gaze back on his friend. The boy before him was still fidgeting with his flute, gaze bouncing around the room. Combeferre waited until their eyes met again before speaking. “I didn’t know you played.” He nodded to the instrument when Grantaire just stared at him.  
“Oh,” he let out a dry laugh. “I played when I was little, picked it up again once I got sober.”  
“Something to keep your mind busy.” Combeferre mused and noted the sharp, almost scared look that comment got him. “Playing the cello helps clear mine. When my mind’s too busy to let me sleep I come here and can play for hours.” He continued, still in the same easy tone and watched the tension ease out of Grantaire’s shoulders.  
“Something like that.” Grantaire agreed, a small smile dancing across his lips.  
Combeferre debated saying something about how proud they all were of him for getting sober and how happy he seemed now, and while that was all true, that sharp, scared look niggled in the back of his mind and matched to the dark circles. Instead he let it go, settled his cello against the wall and instructed, “Well carry on.” The look he got in return was bemused. “Unless you mind? You sounded good before I interrupted and I wouldn’t mind hearing you play.”  
Grantaire’s smile grew into a grin and he raised the flute to his lips before pausing. “If I play for you would you mind proof-reading my essay? I think it’s done but it couldn’t hurt to get someone else to look through it.”  
Combeferre acquiesced easily and seated himself comfortably against the wall with Grantaire’s laptop. 

He jolted awake to a gentle touch to his shoulder. He blinked hazily for a long moment before focussing on Grantaire who was crouched in front of him, another smile on his face. “I take it my playing was bad enough and my essay boring enough to put you to sleep.” Grantaire said, rescuing the laptop from where it had slid off Combeferre’s lap as he slept.  
“Your playing is excellent and soothing enough to send me to sleep.” Combeferre corrected, stretching. “And your essay is brilliant, concise and eloquent. I made a couple of corrections and suggestions but I put them into notes so feel free to ignore any or all of them.” He glanced back at Grantaire in time to catch the tail end of blush dying from his cheeks. “How long was I asleep?”  
“Not long, maybe fifteen minutes or so,” Grantaire shrugged. “You should go home to your bed.”  
Groaning, Combeferre stood up. “So should you.”  
Grantaire shrugged again, idly tapping on the computer keys.  
Combeferre grabbed his bag and his cello and paused in the doorway. “I’m serious, Grantaire, get some sleep.”  
Grantaire ginned at him, wide and easy, “That Doctor’s orders?” At Combeferre’s look his grin widened further. “Thanks for proofing my essay.”  
Combeferre sighed and shook his head before slipping away. “Anytime, R, sleep.” 

 

“Can’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t shut up. Fucking voices.” The words tumbled out of Grantaire’s mouth, each one accompanied by a barely controlled punch to the wildly swinging punching bag.  
“Hearing voices, R?” Bahorel’s voice cut through the deserted gym, his tone teasing.  
Grantaire glanced up briefly to find him in the doorway, Feuilly hovering at his shoulder. He shook his head and swung at the bag again, the same words still falling from his lips. One particularly wild punch had the bag swinging back towards him and only Bahorel’s quick actions stopped it from connecting violently with his face.  
Bahorel scanned his harshly panting but still muttering friend. Dark circles surrounded sunken eyes and his t-shirt, although dripping, hung loosely off his gaunt frame. “Christ, R, when did you last eat?” he asked, careful to keep his voice teasing.  
“Or sleep?” Feuilly chimed in.  
Grantaire looked at them both blankly and resumed thumping the bag Bahorel was still holding onto, his mantra never faltering.  
“Grantaire.” Feuilly’s voice sharpened and the boy froze, staring at the bag. “Grantaire,” he repeated more softly, but whatever else he was going to say was interrupted by the boy himself.  
“I’m going to be sick.”

Bahorel crouched behind his still retching friend, rubbing soothing circles down his back and frowning at the prominent ridges of his spine. How had none of them noticed how skinny Grantaire had gotten? He glanced into the toilet bowl and was unsurprised to see nothing but yellow bile.  
“Here.” Feuilly held out a glass of water and waited until Bahorel coaxed Grantaire into a sitting position before passing it over. “Slow sips,” he instructed, watching carefully as Grantaire swallowed painfully.  
“Seriously, R, when did you last eat?” Bahorel asked again, hands resuming their caress down his back.  
Grantaire gave a tiny shrug. “Couple of days ago?” he hazarded, sighing when he registered his friends’ aghast looks.  
“And sleep?” Feuilly prompted.  
“The same?” Grantaire asked more than answered, staring into the water glass.  
Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged a look and, when they were sure Grantaire wasn’t going to start retching again, each took hold of an arm and dragged the weakly protesting boy to dinner.

When the three of them were situated in a booth of their favourite American-style diner with large baskets of chips and burgers in front of them Bahorel levelled a glare at Grantaire. “Why haven’t you been eating?” he asked bluntly.  
Grantaire shrugged, picking at his chips and not looking at either of them.  
“And why aren’t you sleeping? Combeferre says you’ve been in the practice rooms practically every night since he found you there and that Éponine says the few nights you have spent at home you’ve been up all hours painting.” Feuilly added.  
Grantaire scowled at their gossiping but didn’t answer, instead focusing on swallowing his chips and working up to take a bite of his burger.  
“Come on, Grantaire, we care about you. All of us. You’ve seemed happier since you stopped drinking and you’ve been more involved in things, not just Les Amis meetings, which can only be a good thing.” Bahorel said around a mouthful of his own burger.  
Feuilly watched Grantaire struggle to swallow and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Small bites,” he advised, “a little at a time. If you’ve not eaten for a while too much too fast will make you sick again. Take your time; none of us have anywhere to be tonight.” The look he got for his concern was stuck between gratitude and annoyance. 

They ate in silence for a while before Feuilly spoke up again. “Enjolras has been paying more attention to you.” Grantaire’s face lit up at the mention of the blonde. “Or rather, been giving you more positive attention.” He clarified. “When Combeferre told us about your sleeping habits he looked concerned.”  
Grantaire failed to hide his pleased blush at that but scowled at Feuilly. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re playing the Enjolras card so I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”  
Feuilly stared back impassively, while Bahorel crowed, “So there is something wrong!”  
“No. Damn it.” Grantaire’s scowl deepened.  
“Come on, R.” Bahorel cajoled. “We loooove you.” He stuck his face close to Grantaire’s and grinned, revealing teeth lined with chips.  
That coaxed a tiny smile from the other boy and he pushed him away, laughing slightly. “Oh my God. Fine, if you really want to know?”  
Bahorel sat back next to Feuilly and the pair stared across the table at him. “We really want to know.” Bahorel intoned solemnly.  
Grantaire took a deep breath and averted his gaze back to the table top. He grabbed the salt and set about drawing patterns with it on the checked table cloth. A gentle kick to his ankle got him talking. “Do you know why I drank?”

Silence greeted him and he glanced up at his friends. They were both watching him, tender expressions on their faces. “I’ll take that as a no. You teased before, Bahorel, about hearing voices.” He met Bahorel’s gaze and then looked down, his voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone. “Well, you’re right. There’s this voice, often more than one, in the back of my head telling me I’m not worth the effort, that I’ll never amount to anything, so why should anyone give me the time of day? It started out as my father’s voice and no surprise there because he told me that in person.” At the mention of his father Grantaire’s voice went bitter and brittle. He took another deep breath and carried on. “As time went on it could be anyone I knew’s voice. In my head, all of you have told me I’m not worth it at least once. The worst was when it was Enjolras’. He never went as far as saying I was useless out loud, but there were times last year when I could tell he wanted to. He wanted to tell me I was wasting his time.” He paused again, abandoning the salt shaker and used his fingers to refine his patterns. “But when I drank, even got just slightly drunk, I could turn the volume down on them, and when I got absolutely black-out drunk I could shut them up completely.”  
“And now?” Feuilly spoke softly, one hand coming to hover over one of Grantaire’s, unsure whether he’d welcome the touch.  
Grantaire left his salt patterns and grasped Feuilly’s hand. Feuilly squeezed and he looked up. “Now, I can’t eat because that gives me nothing to focus on and when that happens the voices yell. Now, I can’t sleep because there’s nothing to stop the self-loathing from becoming dreams. Now, I keep busy and convince myself I’m happy.” His tone stayed flippant up until the ‘happy’ where it cracked. He cleared his throat and broke eye-contact, his voice dropping to murmur. “I am happy. I am. When I’m busy.” He let go of Feuilly’s hand, unable to bear the pity.

He jolted when the pair of them crowded him into the centre of the bench, sandwiching him into a hug.  
“Does eating with other people help?” Bahorel asked into his hair, his voice strangely gruff.  
“Yeah,” Grantaire admitted, relaxing into the hug. “Except when they make me talk about it.” He felt his hair ruffle as the pair huffed out a laugh.  
Feuilly slipped back into the other side of the booth, leaving Bahorel wrapped around Grantaire’s neck. He studied the boy, who was laughing and trying to squirm out of Bahorel’s chokehold. “Have you seen anyone about it?” he said quietly. Grantaire froze and Bahorel released him with a reassuring squeeze, glaring at Feuilly. Feuilly stared back evenly.  
“Yeah,” Grantaire whispered. He cleared his throat, looking at the table. “We had to talk to therapists during rehab and then I’ve been seeing one every week. Éponine makes sure I go. I’ve got tablets to take, but I don’t like how they make me feel, so I’m pretty bad at taking them.”  
“Do they not help though?” Bahorel spoke carefully.  
Grantaire fidgeted, “They do but keeping busy felt better.”  
“But it’s making you ill. And we want you to be happy for real, not just pretending to be.” Feuilly said, ducking his head to meet Grantaire’s eyes.  
“So take your meds.” Bahorel finished, grabbing Grantaire into another headlock and scrubbing his knuckles through his hair.  
Grantaire laughed, “Yes Mum.” 

 

When Grantaire got out of the shower the following morning he found Éponine lounging on his bed and a bacon sandwich on his desk. He glanced at it before tugging on his boxers and jeans. He threw his towel at Éponine’s head as he searched for a clean shirt. Éponine threw the towel back and glowered at him. “Eat the sandwich.” She smiled ferally. “And take your damn pills.” She threw the bottle at him and he caught it reflexively. Under her glare he took them without complaint but turned away from the food.  
“Ép, I have class, I’m late already.” He pulled on his shirt and then grabbed his bag, stuffing the notepad from his desk into it, studiously avoiding the girl’s glare.  
“Eat it.” Éponine’s voice hardened, her tone brokering no argument. She got off the bed and shoved the plate into his hands. “Grantaire. I’m not letting you waste away. Who would help me pay the bills then? Or bully Gavroche into doing his homework? Eat the damn sandwich.”  
Grantaire grinned down at her and tugged on the end of her ponytail, but did as he was told. “Yes ma’am.” 

 

Grantaire spoke up as the next meeting was drawing to a close. “Um,” he coughed, “I can’t make the meeting on Saturday.” He cringed slightly when Enjolras pinned him with a glare. “Um, sorry?” The rest of the group just looked at him curiously.  
Enjolras took a deep breath as if to reign in his temper. “Why not?”  
“I have a fencing tournament.” Grantaire watched the surprise bloom across most of his friends’ faces, barring Éponine, Bahorel and Feuilly, but he was more interested in Enjolras.  
Enjolras glanced away and exchanged a look with Combeferre, who shrugged. “I didn’t know you fenced.”  
Grantaire shrugged easily, relaxing back into his chair. “I didn’t, but it looked pretty cool and I’m quick on my feet so I thought why not try.”  
Interest bloomed in Enjolras’ eyes and Grantaire had to fight not to let it warm him too much. It wouldn’t do to be getting his hopes up.

Jehan’s musical voice startled them into looking away from each other, a faint blush colouring Enjolras’ cheeks as he focused his gaze elsewhere. “So what else have you got into since this year started? Combeferre said he caught you playing the flute. I guess you box with Bahorel still? Now you tell us you fence? What else?” Jehan sent Grantaire a soft smile, his pleasure at his friend’s involvement in different things palpable.  
“He dances with me and Cosette.” Éponine piped up, smirking at her flatmate when he threw a glower and a cold chip at her. Feuilly had foisted them on him at the start of the meeting.  
“We’re trying to convince him to be in the dance show with us,” added Cosette from where she was sitting on Marius’ lap, absently playing with his hair.  
“Already?” Joly asked, “Isn’t that in like, May?”  
Éponine and Cosette laughed and laughed harder when Grantaire slouched down in his seat, scowling at the two girls.  
“He’s being stubborn,” Éponine teased, giggling and exchanging looks with Cosette. “Which is futile because he knows we’ll win.” Cosette reached over and high fived her friend, who then bent over and ruffled Grantaire’s hair, the only thing visible over the table top.  
“I hate you both.” Grantaire’s voice floated up sullenly, drawing bright laughter from them all.  
“What type of dance?” Courfeyrac leant forward eagerly.  
“Modern and jazz mainly.” Éponine told him, her smile brilliant. “Cosette does ballet as well. He still paints too.”  
“He did the posters for Med Soc’s Halloween party.” Combeferre told the rest of the group, pulling Éponine back from where she was still tugging at Grantaire’s hair and causing them all to look over at Grantaire’s table. The posters in question had intrigued the entire university, with multiple people asking after the artist. “Anything else?”  
“Kickboxing.” The word emerged from Grantaire’s table but the boy didn’t follow, even when they all turned to stare.  
“Sit up, Grantaire.” Enjolras said imperiously, shooting a quelling look at the still laughing girls. “Éponine and Cosette will leave you alone.”  
Grumbling, Grantaire did Enjolras’ bidding and sat up but avoided everyone’s gaze. “I kickbox, with the university team. I used to when I was at school. I picked it up again at the beginning of the year.”  
“Do you ever sleep?” Joly fretted, “Because you know, R, lack of sleep can cause hallucinations, memory loss, weight loss, headaches, muscle cramps-,” Joly’s list of symptoms was stopped by Bossuet’s hand, the other boy cutting him off to the others’ amusement.  
“So pretty much the symptoms of withdrawal, right?” Grantaire joked, but Combeferre and Enjolras noticed the pained look he couldn’t conceal fast enough. They exchanged concerned looks, but left it alone, joining in the others’ laughter.

 

On Saturday Enjolras struggled to maintain order throughout the meeting. Nobody was paying him much attention, most of them wondering loudly about Grantaire’s fencing tournament. He couldn’t fault them, he was fighting to keep his own focus on their discussions, rather than on the dark-curly haired boy who was missing. After the last meeting he and Combeferre had discussed Grantaire, both of them expressing their concern over the weight loss they could visibly see and Combeferre had brought up the lack of sleep again, spurred on by Joly’s fretting. Combeferre had pointed out Feuilly, Bahorel and Éponine’s attempts to feed him, but none of them knew what to do about his lack of sleep. Now that it was brought to Enjolras’ attention, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something he could do. He wasn’t sure what the other boy meant to him, but he’d known since the meeting where Courfeyrac had enlightened him to Grantaire’s sobriety that he’d finally admitted his feelings for him.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s quiet voice brought him out of his contemplation and he startled, finding all his friends staring at him. “We were thinking that maybe we should call it a day and go watch Grantaire, show him our support. Would you like to come with us?”  
Enjolras hesitated.  
“He’s good.” Gavroche piped up from where he was hanging off Bahorel’s arm. They all turned to look at the young boy, who just grinned under their scrutiny.  
“And you know this how?” Combeferre asked, the smile playing on his lips growing when he noticed Enjolras’ interest.  
Gavroche shrugged, dropping from Bahorel’s arm and jumping up onto the man’s back. Bahorel grunted exaggeratedly, but let the boy scramble up monkey-like. “Sometimes when Bahorel sends me to find R with sandwiches I sneak in and watch them practice. The lady at the front desk likes me.”  
“So can we go?” Courfeyrac turned puppy-dog eyes on Enjolras. “Pleeeeease.”  
Enjolras let out a sharp burst of laughter and rolled his eyes at his friend, holding up his hands. “I’m not stopping you.”  
“Yes!” Courfeyrac punched the air and got up, hastily gathering his things, the others following suit eagerly. He paused at the door and glanced back at Enjolras. “You’re coming too, right?”  
Enjolras just looked at him and then pointedly down at Cosette and Éponine who each had a hold of an arm and were guiding him along. Courfeyrac cackled. 

They made a lot of noise clattering into the sports hall, a by-product of trying to get thirteen strong-willed people into one place at one time. It was obviously an important tournament, with multiple university participating. They tried to quiet themselves when one of the officials glared at them but the giggles were hard to quell. The look of surprise and pleasure that bloomed across Grantaire’s face when he saw them all didn’t help, the more boisterous of them (Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bossuet, Bahorel and Gavroche) waving at him merrily. 

They settled once the fencing started, captured by the dances played out on the piste before them. Gavroche was right; Grantaire was good. He parried and attacked fluidly, his foil an extension of his arm, his footwork neat and concise, easily dispatching his opponents. Combeferre nudged Éponine to direct her attention to Enjolras, startling her out of her contemplation of her best friend. The blonde was entranced, his eyes focussed entirely on Grantaire. Combeferre and Éponine shared a smile and went back to watching the bout.

When the tournament was done Grantaire had a bronze medal and a lot of loud friends crowding him. The others seemed to melt away when his eyes met Enjolras’. Enjolras shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Well done,” he offered quietly, a small smile gracing his lips.  
“Thanks.” Grantaire blushed, finding his shoes fascinating.  
“I wasn’t expecting you to be that good, but you were captivating.” Enjolras tried again awkwardly.  
Grantaire let out a laugh, glancing up through the curls hanging in his face to meet Enjolras’ eyes again.  
Before he could reply Courfeyrac cut in. “Oh, you two are tragic.” He lamented, hanging around Grantaire’s neck and twinkling up at Enjolras. “Come on, let’s go celebrate R’s fencing prowess with movie night. You can flirt some more at home.” He pushed a spluttering and laughing Grantaire towards the changing rooms, while Jehan smiled apologetically at the equally flustered Enjolras.  
“But we weren’t flirting.” The blonde protested, his distraction allowing Cosette to lead him outside. 

 

“Enjolras!” Jehan barrelled into Enjolras’ bedroom. “Have you seen-,” He stopped short just inside the door and took in the scene before him. “Oh.”  
Enjolras was sitting against his headboard reading a book, the fingers of one hand lazily tangling and untangling in Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire was lying with his head pillowed on Enjolras’ thigh, his face grey against the black of Enjolras’ jeans, his exhaustion apparent. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at Jehan but didn’t say a word.  
“Oh. He’s sleeping. Thank God.” Jehan closed the door quietly behind him and perched on the end of the bed facing Enjolras.  
Marking his place in his book but keeping his fingers moving in Grantaire’s hair, Enjolras watched Jehan look at Grantaire, an impossibly fond but sad look on his face.  
“I don’t think he’s slept properly for at least a week.” Jehan glanced up at Enjolras.  
Enjolras hummed. “He said my voice quiets the ones in his head.”  
“I noticed he passed out at the meeting the other day.” Jehan teased. “He looked so adorable curled up in Éponine’s lap. Courfeyrac took pictures.”  
“So did Bahorel, Joly and Gavroche.” Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I think even Combeferre took one, although that was probably more of Éponine.”  
“But he’s sleeping properly now right? Like he didn’t just pass out because his body couldn’t stay awake?” Jehan watched Enjolras carefully, reaching out a hand to stroke gently down Grantaire’s arm. The boy shifted, pressing his face into Enjolras’ thigh, but didn’t wake up.  
“I read to him till he fell asleep. If I take my hand out of his hair he stirs though.” Enjolras stared down at the boy in his lap, his face soft and open.  
“He trusts you and you love him.” Jehan observed. “That goes a long way.”  
Enjolras’ head shot up and he looked at Jehan terrified. “I, I don’t love him. I mean I do, he’s my friend but...” he trailed off, eyes pleading.  
Jehan shook his head, smiling softly. “He loves you back. You’ve got nothing to be scared of.”  
Enjolras was silent for a long moment, his hand freezing in Grantaire’s hair. A small noise of discontent escaped Grantaire’s throat, a frown appearing on his face, and Enjolras started petting him again automatically, fingers smoothing the frown lines from his brow before going back to his hair. Jehan’s smile deepened. “Except losing him.” Jehan shot him a curious look. “He didn’t let any of us know he wasn’t eating or sleeping. How did we not notice? We thought he was happy. And what if it had gone further? What if he goes back to his bottle? Then I really could lose him.”  
“He didn’t tell us because he believed the voices in his head. And we did notice. Do you really think any of us would let him slip away like that? Do you think you could?”  
“I don’t know what I’m doing with him. I don’t know myself when I’m with him.”  
Jehan gave him another smile, leaning over to press a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead and another to Enjolras’ cheek. “You know yourself, Enjolras, I’ve never seen anyone more aware of themselves.” He slipped off the bed and paused at the door. “Do you know why he stopped drinking?” At Enjolras’ shake of the head, he continued, “He wanted to be someone worthy of you. He loves you. All he wants from you is a chance. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Be there for him.” With that said Jehan slid out of the room, leaving Enjolras staring at the door after him, his hand still caressing Grantaire’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head Enjolras and Grantaire just kind of fall into a relationship and it gets to a point where neither of them can sleep unless the other is in bed with them (this makes for an expensive phone bill at Christmas when they have to go home), all of them like passively aggressively force R to eat, which results in lots of dinners with all 13 of them because in reality they're all pretty bad at remembering to eat (especially Enjolras and Feuilly, although Marius is pretty ditzy about it too, Joly frets about them all), & Combeferre still randomly finds R in the practice rooms at ridiculous o'clock in the morning (they've got a pretty decent routine down, 'Ferre proofs R's essays & occasionally convinces him to proof some of his own essays (he's good at picking arguments apart & Combeferre is clever enough to take advantage of that), they've even got a spectacular cello/flute duet worked out, & often Enjolras will be sprawled in the corner, frantically tapping away at his own computer). Basically they're all just ridiculously co-dependent and R's problems just made them go, huh, we're all pretty crap at looking after ourselves so we'll look after each other & be looked after in return. It's best for everyone.


End file.
